


Stare

by Pouxin



Category: No Fandom, The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouxin/pseuds/Pouxin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca accidentally watches Marcus and Cottia having sex.  Feeeeelings ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stare

**Rating** : NC-17 for explicit sex  


 **Author note** :I'm all second-person-narrative-upped from my Dead Poets' AU WIP, so trying to write in the third person again proved too much of an effort. I am ruined! Forever!

Un-beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.

____________________________

You have been living with Marcus and Cottia on the farm for almost two years now. Just the three of you and Cub, plus the occasional itinerant worker at harvest time. It works well. You and Marcus have an easy comradeship now, strong and true, both sure and happy in each other’s regard and affection. And you like Cottia, her inquisitive mind, her dancing eyes, her narrow feet. Sometimes the two of you talk in your mother tongue, often about Marcus, trying to annoy him, and he takes it good naturedly enough, bumping your ribs with his elbow, or pinching Cottia’s cheek.  
  
The two of them are not particularly physically demonstrative with each other; at first you thought out of respect for you, but now you think it is probably just Marcus’ way, there are still parts of him that are reserved, forever held back, proper. You understand that. It is not like you have ever been one for great displays of affection yourself. You wonder if Cottia minds, for she is more relaxed than either of you, happy and playful, and she touches Marcus often, her small hands quick on his arms, his face, his stomach. But Marcus looks at her fiercely, with love, and sometimes speaks to her low, tender, too quiet for you to hear, so you imagine maybe it is different between them when they are alone, more passionate. Still, the farmhouse is small and yet you rarely hear them: just occasional sighs, creaking. Marcus is a quiet lover. Which is what you expected, really, that tight control you are so used to, Marcus, so measured in thought and action. You know underneath is passion, resolve – hot steel – and you love this about him; but it always tempered by the cool flow of his thoughts. He is complex. You think of his passions as like the eruption of the spring inside the mountain lake, the source of the river deep in the heart of the darkness; and yet he only expresses them as the steady flow of the mountain stream issuing from the cavern, soft but certain, a quiet power, unspoken.

It’s hot. It’s been hot all summer. You have grown lazy and complacent with it, quick to irritate, but just as quick to calm, for nothing is sustainable in this slow, damp heat. It is very unlike Britain. You cannot remember another summer like this in all your years. Only Marcus is happy, it reminds him of Italy. He has turned dark as bronze from the sun, and works stripped to the waist; whereas you and Cottia have to be careful, cover yourselves, eat in the shade, or your skin burns angry red and comes off in long strips like an adder’s. The days are so long, the heat so stifling, that you have all taken to having siestas, at Marcus’ suggestion. Mornings are now spent working on the farm, as are the cool purpling evenings, but from noon til late afternoon you eat, then either doze or carry out small household tasks in the cool of the pantry.

Today you have stayed in the kitchen after lunch, sprawled across your couch. You feel too hot to move, sluggish, heavy. You idly watch a fat fly landing on the bread that still sits on the table, and you have no energy to bat it away. It moves itself eventually, its greasy buzzing grating at the edges of your thoughts. Sighing, you stand, craving the coolness of your own room. You make your way out of the kitchen, past where Cottia and Marcus sleep. It is so warm that you have all taken to leaving everything open, the doors, the curtains you normally draw over the entrance to the rooms - breeze is paramount. As you walk past the narrow opening to Cottia and Marcus’ room you turn your head briefly, without really thinking, sensing a light flow of cooler air, distracted by the unrelenting heat.

Marcus and Cottia are in bed, their heads nearest you, their feet to the wall. She is on her back, all you can see of her is the dark flame of vixen-coloured hair licking across the pillow and the tops of her long slim thighs, pale and freckled, wrapped around Marcus’ waist. Him you can see more of; the strong bulk of his upper arms as he rears up over Cottia, the muscular curves of his biceps flexing with every forward thrust. The small of his back sheened with sweat. The hard tightness of his arse, pulsing and relaxing, clench and release. The buttery darkness of his skin, the fine dusting of black hairs down his arms. The sudden smattering of wild freckles over his shoulders. His head is down, facing Cottia, his eyes in shadow to you so you cannot see his expression. He rides Cottia like he rides the horses on the farm, careful, concentrated, steely thighs and gentle hands; and she snorts and arches into his touch like a young filly, full of joy and spirit, knowing he is her master.

You stand, transfixed, feeling yourself grow suddenly, painfully, hard; desire blooming so hot and quick you feel dizzy with it. You have thought of Marcus this way before, but you doubt he has ever thought of you. He is too conventional, too bound by duty and honour, too straight. You know enough of Roman culture to know it is not uncommon for men to lie with boys, but it is not something Marcus has ever spoken of, even in passing. Still, there have been times…the journey North, the way his eyes sometimes rested on you… But, no. Besides, Marcus is so private, such an intensely guarded man, there is so much he would never share, and you are careful to respect that, now you are friends, brothers.

So you know you should move away, but you cannot. It is as if you are rooted to the spot, by a strong force that snakes up your suddenly shaky legs all the way to the throbbing tip of your cock. You are so turned on it’s almost uncomfortable, everything in your belly has drawn in on itself, tight and ready. Marcus.

Then he looks up, as if sensing your cool grey eyes on his warm golden body, and his gaze, somehow, meets yours. Your insides turn to ice. There is no way this can look accidental, for you have drawn in closer, clearly visible through the thin gauze of the netting draped around the edges of their bed, and you are squarely staring.

But Marcus does not stop, shout, cover himself, cover Cottia, as you thought he might. Instead he holds your gaze, does not even look surprised, and his eyes are green and knowing and they press against your heart, seeing all your secrets. More over, he holds his rhythm, driving into Cottia with the same powerful, steady strokes he was using before. You feel each thrust keenly, as if Marcus was inside _you_ , moving inside _you_ , his hands on _your_ skin, his hips flush to _your_ arse. You are caught, suspended, breathless, and you jerk on the noose of his stare. He licks his lips and your heart stutters. Then he speaks.

“Tell me how it feels,” and his eyes never leave yours.

“Oh,” Cottia moans, her face still hidden from you, her voice low and throaty. “You feel _so good_. So good Marcus!”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his mouth pulls and quirks, his gaze still locked on you. You can do nothing except stare back, your breath snarled and held in your throat, your prick humming with need.

“Tell me how big I am.”

Cottia half laughs at this, breathy and soft, and you see her turn her face sideways into the pillow, nuzzle against the wide pillar of Marcus’ wrist. Marcus doesn’t smile back. He keeps his face on yours, serious, jaw rigid, his stare so intense it feels like burning up and down your spine. “You feel…massive. You’re so big inside me. Gods, you feel good. Filling me up. Fucking me. Fucking me with your great…big…cock.”

You know he is big, you’ve seen him at the baths, swimming in the stream that runs through the farm, sometimes half hard after the thrill of a hunt, full of excitement and energy. You have always turned your eyes away, deliberately not looked. But now it’s all you can think of, his prick, hard and ready, how it would feel inside you, the hot smooth slide of it. Marcus is still staring at you, and you know he knows, knows how you are imagining the feel of him within you, knows you are seeing yourself bent over for him, open and ready, stretched out and desperate on his cock.

“Tell me how much you love it,” and his voice is almost cruel, his eyes dark and savage.

“I love it, you know I love it, Marcus, fuck! I love you fucking me… I love… Oh…” and she slips into your native tongue here, although you barely notice it, “ _Fuck, deeper, yes_!”

Her hands come up to rake along the sides of his back, leaving red welts upon the smooth planes of his tawny skin. You imagine scratching Marcus, biting him, marking him as your own. Claiming him. Coming on him. You can feel that the tip of your cock is wet with precome, it gives an agonizing pulse of desire with each of Marcus’ careful thrusts. He has moved one hand down to stroke Cottia where they are joined, the muscles of his other arm shaking with the strain, because he will not let himself look down, he keeps his head up, rigid, his eyes on you.

“Come for me now,” he says, voice tight and low, but still with that never-ending control, and Cottia writhes and arches underneath him.

“Oh yes, Marcus, yes.” And then she lifts her head up, licks at the thick column of his neck, you can see the tip of her tongue, quick and pink, and you can almost taste what she tastes, the salty tang of Marcus’ sweat, the earthy richness of his skin. “Come for _me_ , I want to feel you come inside me, I want to feel you.”

You see his pupils blow large and dark as he orgasms, but somehow he keeps his eyes open, on your eyes, and so you see him coming, the quiver and the spasm of it, and it is as if he is fucking into your soul, spurting inside you, his essence flooding over your nerves, your bones, your heart. _Marcus_.

“Darling,” he says, still staring directly at you, eyes a little softer now, face relaxing. “Darling. My _love_.” You feel your heart give a confused clench, sadness, longing, joy; and your cock give a stronger, clearer clench, _touch me_. You back away quickly, before they recover themselves, and you stumble, unsteady, waiting only until you are just round the corner, barely out of sight, before you put your hand on yourself. You don’t even bother to undo the laces of your braccae, just two, three long rubs against the rigid outline of your cock through the light material and you are done for, knees shaking, feeling your prick gushing inside the confines of your clothes, the hot slickness of it against your thighs and belly. And your eyes are shut, shut against the thick summer light, and all you can see is him, and his eyes on you, and his eyes as he was coming, Marcus.

 _Darling, darling, my love_.


End file.
